Getting sweaty at Pitti (Uomo)
There’s an unnerving moment when you cross from darkness into light, when the world turns its gaze towards you, and there’s nowhere left to hide…
Heron’s Ghyll stepped into that light at the 104th edition of Pitti Uomo in June 2023—an unfamiliar glow, both harsh and inviting. For years, the brand had moved quietly in the shadows, constructing itself in solitude, away from the noise. But standing among giants, the air felt different. The weight of expectation pressed down, yet there was no turning back. This was the big leap—the moment that defines everything. Each stitch, each poorly sewn button (dammit, Vicki!), now visible, laid bare for all to see…
A knot of existential dread settled in my stomach in the days leading up to the fair, one I couldn’t shake. I considered withdrawing, though the deeply rooted pragmatism of my upbringing could not abide forfeiting the deposit. Defeat I could live with—wasting money, not so much.
Perhaps this unease stemmed from an inherent distaste for the transactional nature of selling—something I regard as a vulgar ritual in the temple of capitalism. Naturally, our clothes are exceptional; I know this because I make them. And yet, I find myself constantly bewildered by the fact that our website hasn’t buckled under the weight of customers eager to get their hands on a Heron’s Ghyll suit. I had assumed that quality spoke for itself, that great design required no fanfare. It seemed, however, that the world occasionally needed a gentle nudge...
I tried to imagine what it might be like at the fair, and the images that flashed through my mind were of overly zealous supermarket vendors foisting samples on unsuspecting weekend shoppers, and of charity volunteers on Upper Street, desperately imploring passersby to stop and listen. A pang of sympathy struck me—for them, for us. We were all in the business of seeking eye contact with those intent on avoiding us.
After months of existential angst, the day arrived, and we found ourselves in Florence on the eve of the show. While others arrived with poise, we... dragged our luggage across the cobblestones like cattle farmers wrestling a stubborn herd, grunting and heaving as the wheels of our suitcases caught on every groove. The sun, unsparing, only intensified the struggle. By the time we reached the entrance of the Fortezza da Basso, any hope of looking composed had long since evaporated.
The scene outside the Fortezza on the day we arrived was a chaotic symphony of trucks honking, men barking orders, and a sea of lanyard-clad fashion insiders marching with enviable purpose, their heels click-clacking in a sharp staccato against the pavement. Meanwhile, I was a flustered mess, very nearly tripping over my own feet as a van from a Very Important Brand sped past, mocking me with its effortless efficiency.
I chanced upon a candid shot of myself in the background of someone's street style photo—pit stains visible, hair up like a prairie wife. I believe they call it sprezzatura...
There’s something about menswear's biggest stage that can make you feel small, and not in an existential sense. It’s tangible. Starting a brand in lockdown had shielded us from the harsh realities of the industry—there were no crowds, no packed schedules, no endless rooms filled with people who had “seen it all.” It was just us and our ideas. But now, at Pitti, I felt every inch of the divide between where we stood in the Sala delle Nazioni (a.k.a. the tundra) and where the heavyweights operated in the Padiglione Centrale. The critical inner voice whispered: You’re out of your depth.
But here’s the thing about standing in the light: it’s harsh, yes, but it’s also where you’re truly seen. It forces you to show up, to hold your ground. So we took it one step at a time, hoping the pieces we’d poured everything into would speak louder than our nerves.
///
On Day 1, we had our own brush with legend. There he was, strolling past our booth: silver hair impeccably slicked, tortoiseshell glasses resting with effortless grace, wearing a regal trachten jacket. Ned and I exchanged a glance that said, who is this man? Later, we discovered his name: Bernhard Roetzel. Author of Gentleman: A Timeless Fashion. He stopped by, we chatted, and he later even featured us on his blog, turning what felt like an offhand encounter into something that would carry far beyond the booth.
In the end, what we realized was that “being seen” isn’t a triumph; it’s a transaction. Visibility comes at a cost—measured not in acclaim but in the indignity of asking to be noticed. This menswear fun-fair offered a stage: indifferent, glaring, and governed by unspoken codes, where clout mattered more than craft, and self-regard preceded substance. We still hate the game. But if there is a next time, we’ll be ready.